Tributary’s of consciousness.
Essays, articles, compositions
The river has many parts, and all parts make up the river. All rivers flow towards the ocean. There are streams and rivulets, there are waterfalls and brooks. There is no end, this cycle of water is one of the endless.
The unsweetened holy
These figures we revere, are people, not glass figurines of virtue—they were beings that, walked through delusion, death, rage, longing. Yet what we receive through history is a polished myth—stripped of its blood, stripped of its ache, its laughter, its unbearable intimacy. We canonize transcendence, but forget the terrain from whence it rises.
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The myth of perfection
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Perfection is a hidden bondage itself
Perfection does not exist here, it is an ideal, that the human mind clings to. A cuff bolted to the past. A desire bed-ridden and mouldy, wasting away in the memory of today.
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It has to do with the way we carry stories—especially the ones we call ‘spiritual’. The way we keep repeating the names, of all those who walked into the heart - of being.
As if somehow - if we cling enough to these men in halos - we too will become those same stories, lathered in a pale coat of polish - as if it is the last word.
How over time, we’ve perfected those stories until they shine so brightly, they no longer cast the shadow of reality and block many from seeing the way of life, by scripts of undiscerning, imbalanced idealism.
We talk of enlightenment as though it’s an endpoint, a final crystallisation of the human into something flawless. But life - is not that clean. It’s not that linear. It doesn’t resolve into perfection. Not necessarily.
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Reflections on Form
That place of airy perfection is something beyond comprehension, but now I see more clearly the texture of existence—not as mistake, but as mystery. The way the body aches. The way the blood cycles. The way subtle attachments arise again, not as signs of failure, but as expressions of living.
So when I hear people speak of these great ones as if they had transcended all of this—as if they no longer touched the world, no longer bled—I wonder: is it their presence we revere, or the polished reflection of our longing cast upon them?
Human consciousness, gravitates towards the shimmer, avoiding the shadow cast by the existence of form. The shadow that always re-occurs- for in this world we will always have form. Where there is more growth in life, where our eye may come to see more, other things dim into the mystery of the unknown. For the reality is, we will in ways, always be partially blind. It is allowing the child to exist without punishing its limitations, without, whipping its cheeks, into beds of roses, when we want to rule its flaws.
We have, for so long, clung to the stories of luminousity. Some named, Others unnamed. And yet what we carry forward is not the weight of their walk, but the shine of their soles. We have preserved perfection, not presence. We have kept alive the idea of the sun within, but not the long cloud it casts on the forehead, forgotten.
The human mind, in its discomfort with complexity, seeks purity. It wants the story to be whole and unmarred. And so it edits. It simplifies. It embalms the lives of saints and sages until they resemble nothing but airbrushed myths. And yet life—life is not made of myths. It is made of contradiction. Of ache and laughter. Of formless within form returning to itself, again and again.
It might be said that the point is not to ascend endlessly upward, but to descend just enough—to touch the ground, remember the weight, and still choose to walk.
To be alive is not to transcend, but to transmute. To find, even in this imperfect vessel, the breath of the eternal -
Life itself, not because it is flawless. I have come into understanding many times now, nothing manifest is perfect by virtue of its form. That is life. That is the material existence.
So again, I wonder (about all these beings in history): is it their presence we revere, or the polished reflection of our longing cast upon them?
The past is dead.
The light also a mask.
Gravity swallows light’
Instead of pulling on things directly like a magnet, gravity curves space-time itself. Stars, planets, black holes create deep ‘dents’ or curves in the fabric of space-time.
Light normally travels in straight lines. But in curved space-time, the “straightest possible path” bends. If an object is dense and massive enough - like a black hole - its gravitational curvature becomes so extreme that; all possible paths for light curves inward, there is no path out, not even light can escape. This region is called event horizon - once light crosses it, it’s lost to the outside universe.
When gravity “swallows” light, it draws even the most intangible, the purest form of energy into the unknown. This mirrors the dissolution of the visible into the invisible, the seen into the unseen.
Just as light disappears into the black holes event horizon, ego dissolves into the infinite during deep sleep or mystical experience. There is no return to prior form.
The black hole as womb:
In many cosmological and mystical traditions, darkness is not absence but potential. the black hole often imagined as death or end is also a womb like space, concealing the seeds of other universes or deeper layers of reality. accessing the self is accessing the unlimited creative potential.
This ‘Nothing’ is the bedrock of the universe.
Mind as a mirror to the cosmos, et vis-a-vis:
One could imagine the mind filled with black holes. Where memories are kept, and patterns, and imaginations. We have in our own minds, black holes the infinite as our capacity to imagine is infinite.
Dead stars collapsed. Everywhere is time and light.
We are the creator’s mind, the complete essence of creation. We are so convinced that our external universe sets the parameter for our experience, but it is only the extraversion, of the real setting of our interaction with reality: the internal solar system. The beyond-mind as the sun. It is the true central axis in which we human beings experience reality and all that is. So one could say -
The sun exists in the mind.
And with this it could be posited that with each experience, with each new memory, or dissolution of self, the space grows, becomes more, but the more is also the space of less.
On the Child and the Field of imagination
Between birth and the age of seven, the child lives in a continuum of openness—unfiltered, imaginal, immersed in theta and alpha frequencies. These are not simply developmental states; they are states of the field, neurological constellations in which the boundary between the inner and outer dissolves. Theta is the language of the dreamer and the seer, the place where form and meaning are not yet split. Alpha is the soft wave of curiosity, calm alertness. Together, they form a portal—not into naivety, but into plasticity.
Mathematically, we can think of these states as low-resistance neural vectors: the pathways of meaning are not yet calcified. The child’s mind operates like a fluid fractal—infinitely folding experience into symbol, body into image, sound into pattern. And so, trauma at this stage becomes a kind of fixed equation—a variable frozen before its expansion. A false constant imposed too early.
To heal is not merely to process but to re-enter the field—to return the mind to its imaginal flexibility, to allow the body to reconfigure the posture it learned in defense. Meditation, hypnosis, and deep trance states allow the adult to re-enter theta—not as child, but as one who holds the child. This is not regression; it is retrieval. To enter the open field again but with a guide and map.
The Taoist sage Laozi speaks of this paradox when he writes: “Know the strength of man, but keep a woman’s care. Be the stream of the universe! Being the stream of the universe, ever true and unswerving, become as a little child once more.”
Here, the return to the child is not a loss of wisdom, but its deepest embodiment. In yogic texts too, the balak bhava (the state of the divine child) is the root of yogic joy—where innocence is not weakness, but unbounded presence.
The Western psyche, conditioned toward the linear, resists this return. But trauma, too, is a loop—a recursive algorithm looping through the nervous system. And so, healing is not linear; it is a return, a spiral inward to re-encode the early fractal with coherence.
To imagine is not to escape—it is to re-open the matrix.
To feel is not to drown—it is to rehydrate the calcified belief.
To return is not to lose the self—it is to release the mask.
This is how the mind, made flexible again, remembers its original equation.
The child is not the past—it is the undivided field before the first split.
The Solar Mind: Language as a Portal of direct Perception and experience
Language is not merely a tool for communication—it is a system of encoding consciousness. When mind and body enter a state of heightened receptivity, words no longer function as symbols pointing to things. They begin to function as portals—vectors through which new configurations of reality are perceived, and in some cases, instantiated.
This is not mystical suggestion—it aligns with the principles observed in quantum mechanics, where the act of observation influences the state of the system. This is known as the “observer effect”. It challenges the nature of objective measurement and questions prescriptive interpretations of reality that do not consider how subjective observation forms the experience of being. Conscious attention, especially when unfragmented, plays an active role in the outcome of events. Language, then, becomes the structure through which attention is shaped and focused. It forms the latticework of cognition, perception, and even identity.
In certain states—where internal resistance is reduced and the nervous system is regulated—a phrase or idea can collapse the ambiguity of potential realities into a coherent perceptual experience. This mirrors the quantum principle of wavefunction collapse: where multiple probabilities exist until one is observed. The difference is, in human consciousness, it is language that often determines what is observed.
This state of mind—lucid, ungrasping, quietly alert—has historically been referred to in metaphysical traditions as the Solar Mind. Not because it implies celestial or divine origins, but because of its clarity. The Solar Mind does not analyze—it illuminates. In such a state, perception aligns so precisely with structure that meaning is not constructed; it is revealed. Language does not explain—it discloses.
In this way, words can become instruments of causality. Their impact is not emotional or poetic but architectural. They change the architecture of one’s inner field. And when that field shifts, perception itself re-organizes.
What we think of as the external world—the solar system, the play of orbiting bodies and radiant centers—is a macroscopic reflection of a deeper, interior structure. Our nervous system, our electromagnetic field, even our psychological patterns mirror the logic of the cosmos. The sun is not simply a star—it is the image of central coherence, a symbol for the organizing intelligence at the core of our cognitive field. When someone says, “the sun exists in the mind,” it is not metaphor. It is structure.
When language meets consciousness in the right frequency—where clarity, curiosity, and somatic regulation converge—a shift occurs. What seemed symbolic becomes structural. What seemed poetic becomes functional.
This is the physics of insight. The grammar of perception. The interior architecture of realities external incarnation.
With language, and enough flexibility, one can come to embody a different reality. This is the power of the mind / the beyond mind. This is where creation and creator meet. And past a point all is a matter of creation, one has to simply think, and one becomes.
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The Mind as Puzzle: Language, Thought, and unlocking life’s deluge
To think is not always to be. The presence of thought is not synonymous with the presence of truth. In fact, thought is often a disruption—a signal that something is obscured, not yet resolved, awaiting coherence. It appears not as the finality of understanding, but as the residue of a structure seeking resolution.
The mind in this light is a puzzle. A multidimensional riddle, formed of memory, experience, language, and assumption. Each thought—especially those that loop or press—is a cipher: a pattern pointing toward some yet-unrealised alignment between self and reality. It is not that thought is always necessary, but that when it arises persistently, it marks an internal structure still incomplete.
Language becomes the working tool of this puzzle. Not merely a mode of description, but an apparatus for synthesis—for unlocking. The right phrase, the right symbolic mapping, the right logical formulation can act as a key. It shifts something internal. And when that piece falls into place—whether emotionally, intellectually, or energetically—a passage opens.
This is what it means to solve a layer of the mind’s puzzle: not to conquer the intellect, but to bring it into alignment with the deeper intelligence of self. Once resolved, thought no longer dominates. The system quiets. The flow resumes.
We do not need thought to be—awareness exists prior to the conglomeration of past impressions. But while the puzzle remains, thought insists. It offers signs, symbols, irritations—each one a prompt toward a higher internal order. To ignore it is to delay coherence. To engage it wisely is to collaborate with the architecture of the self’s becoming.
And with each unlocking, each piece resolved, a new level of being becomes accessible. Reality shifts. Not outwardly at first, but in the dimensional quality of perception. The nervous system harmonizes. Language refines. The presence deepens. In this way, thought is not the enemy of presence—but the last guardian standing between the self and its next expression of truth.
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The Nervous System as the central axis
The nervous system is the solar system turned inward. A blazing sun of awareness at the centre, and all else orbiting—electrical, magnetic, pulsing in patterned spirals. The spine, our central axis, is the standing staff of light, the meru danda, the tree of worlds. It is not just a pillar of bone but a transmitter of frequencies, an antenna that catches the messages from all the unseen spheres.
In yoga, we speak of sushumna, the subtle channel running through the spinal column. Around it spiral ida and pingala, lunar and solar, feminine and masculine. These are not only energetic rivers, but orbital paths—planets around a sun, thought around pure awareness. Each breath, a gravitational wave. Each nerve impulse, a comet of intention passing through the constellation of thought and feeling.
On an anatomical level, the central nervous system transmits bioelectric signals with near-light speed precision. These neural signals resemble electromagnetic waveforms—each synapse firing like a star burst, emitting microvolts of intelligence. In yogic terms, this is prana, the life-force current, which animates both body and cosmos. The spinal column, lined with cerebrospinal fluid, is not just biological—it is conductive. Like the void in which the planets spin, it is a medium of transmission, memory, and emergence.
The chakras themselves can be mapped like planetary spheres. They are described as ‘spinning discs’. And though the use of words trivialises the embodiment of the term, one can see - again - how the inner world mirrors the outer landscape.
In mathematical terms, both systems show fractal recursion—self-similar patterns across scales. The Fibonacci sequence, sacred geometry, and golden ratios appear in the branching of neurons and the orbital distances of celestial bodies. Both systems rely on resonance. The Schumann resonance of the Earth (7.83 Hz) mirrors the alpha wave state of human relaxation. The sun’s solar flares affect human circadian rhythms and heart coherence.
Yoga describes the body as koshas, sheaths or layers—annamaya (physical), pranamaya (energy), manomaya (mind), vijnanamaya (intellect), and anandamaya (bliss). These layers are interwoven, just as gravitational, electromagnetic, and nuclear forces interact in cosmological models. When we sit in deep meditation, we align the inner planets. The breath becomes orbit, the spine becomes solar mast, and the mind quiets into orbital stillness. This is samadhi—when the nervous system attunes to the cosmic rhythm.
The yogic body is not limited to form. It extends into the etheric. As in space, silence is not empty. It is saturated with subtle signals. The yogis knew this. They did not separate anatomy from astrology, physiology from philosophy. To them, the central axis was both tree and tower—axis mundi—a channel through which the universal energies descend and rise. In the kundalini, they described the latent energy, coiled like a serpent at the base of the spine, which when awakened, pierces the planetary chakras and blossoms into full solar awareness at the crown.
Thus, the nervous system is the solar system. Not as metaphor, but as hologram. One is nested in the other. When we quiet the fluctuations of the mind (yoga chitta vritti nirodha), we find that the body becomes observatory, and the seer becomes the seen. The orbit becomes the inward spiral, and we trace the curve of our own breath back to its stellar source.
Beyond good and evil - Response to Nietzsche
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All magic, all mystery is created. It is its greatest asset and its furthest limitation.
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The mind is a funny thing, you start to see how you become the things you read. If flexible enough. How easily ideas are planted. To engage truly. But with distance. All things ingested, a test to one’s own solidity. one’s own truth. How the mind will pick things as it believes it relates to itself, to its own sense of self, and truth and ego and mind. Fickle thing. Therefore it really must go beyond it.
It is the case, that truth is delivered much more simply and with more lightness. There is many eternal idea in this text, yet the text itself is hardly eternal. And much is delivered just as an idea. For it is pre-occupied more with shooting down ‘the unworthy truths’ of others than appealing to the essence of what might be its aspiring essential; A self unconcerned with the other. Its rhetoric is rather abrasive to the eyes, though the eyes can be deceptive. The tone is harsh and cruel to bare, but misdirected to a modern reader, as he tongues his present historical and ancient peers.
The words used here, are shaped by the text just read. of course one cannot help but be continually conditioned by what is staring them directly in the face. Yet in all it’s un-conditioning. Perhaps it is that the text is still conditioned. Still obscured and obsessed by its own intellectualisation. And therefore limited by its own mind and thinking.
I’m surprised by the bravery of this character. The writer feels, the dead eyes in its living fingertips.
yet my opinion wastes away as thin water out of open mouth, and as gawping dead fish out of bucket.
Yet what he speaks contains many yawning profundity’s. The ending: a delight. A writer of sorcery, a clear wizard and warlock. A Merlin of concept and cleverness. ‘necessity and freedom of will’, as they relate to an artist; the same. Indeed, For it is when one is stripped completely, that one comes to realise the mechanism in which one makes one do absolutely anything. And when one is being driven by the essence of life itself, one comes to realise that, there is not much needed to do to engage and explore the beauties of the life. beauty becomes, in the acts of life’s simplicity, and in the daily breath beneath our trodden soles. We need not do very much more than truly live, for life to reveal its sempiternal smothering, and nightly nurturing hand, in our waking and sleeping.
How wonderful the use of words. How artistic the tales. How highly inspired, divine. Yet a torn master it would seem sits behind the words displayed. A mystic and a thinker. A duality hard to contain. A polarity, that surely would eat alive the double headed serpent that wastes away at the bottom of this unworked maze.
Again I lift the eyebrows at what is expressed. Who is it that cares to know? That cares to see? That takes pre-occupation with something left dribbling in the past? Given to me.
Moreover, simply it is life itself, in the words, evolving,
that ripples in its evolutionary and advancing state. So opposes perhaps the drifting away, from something that might in fact be more singular, though indeed a daring and unbelievable paradox. All shifts, all perspectives, all sense of words and self can be directed to the same essential ‘self’ or ‘no-self’. all difference dissolves, beyond the limitations of the intellectual framework. it need not be saintly, but it need not be antagonistic either. For antagonism lies beneath the so called ‘beyond’ and beyond-er.
Perspective whithers behind the gates of these labyrinth walls. The abyss that takes all holds, wets and dries them as figs under hot and drooling sun. Simplicity is the unmasked. The unmasked is simplicity.
Though one can engage in such mouth battling, one may ask, is this truth not beyond such a battle? And ones pre-occupation with desire is just affirming an attachment, of that which one is not.
Perhaps it is beyond good, perhaps it is beyond bad. Perhaps it is beyond absolutely nothing. Perhaps it is this nothing itself. What is it that is trying to go ‘beyond’, is this not also a pre-occupation of man’s mind and it’s desire for more than a beating heart.
The ‘beyond-ness’ has no such involvement. Merely one could read this text and that, as flippantly as one reads a bed time story. For this one eye, the translucent body, of neutral ecstasy, sees one and the same. And it Cannot also be challenged by the limitations of the human consciousness. The human mind. And so be it. It glazes over, side-eyeing the feathery phrases, becomes absorbed for a second, then continues on its distant way, absorbed in its own gathering and the orgasm of its own making. Much less concerned with the lesser human perspective of its own mastery and unadorned under-taking.
Life.
still at the end of it, the momentarily engaged is reminded of how much energy is needed to peruse such opinion. Was it not that the writer speaks of conservation? Energy is limited. As is the life. What use is there to engage so effervescently in opinion, other than to retort with humour, and delight upon realising one’s own perspective. Then realising more deeply how transient and irrelevant in this scheme of life’s unending game and horseplay, one’s perspective really is. And so - and until - one becomes the river.
Indeed there exists many dark bodies close to the sun. Morality; a farcical parade pleased by its own righteousness. But is it not that at the very centre, the basic code is formed and forged upon the spirit of love, and from this, does one not intuitively ‘know’ how to act, as if life itself impels a certain action upon its will? The sun. Beyond the layers. Beyond the masks. most and truest to itself in the present. and in this, before the beyond, and in the realm of matter in which we exist, is it not that there are somethings at least, more fitting to the finer perspective? Where in thought word and deed alignment, life unravels it’s beauty to its greatest extent? Though we need not declare them ‘rights or wrongs’.
To deny the sun’s illumination, would be to misunderstand the epitomal workings of this blessed, brilliant, and unbounded artist. Creator. to deny the obvious reason, that human beings have sight beyond the eyes, Would be a great deception. That we too are able to indulge in a perspective that sees all good and bad as one, is the essential point. For some. Though indeed it is not the destiny for all. Some still like to remain in the dark. And perceive the dark as such. But, and therefore, for those that seek to go beyond, is this creation not something akin to a mathematical code with some quintessential order, a motion moving forward that seeks to meet itself in our many forms.
A beauty that evolves to indulge in its own
simple, yet, (to its perceiver) absolutely exquisite desire to be alive. Beyond the I.
Perhaps in the morning it will have a coffee with a slice of cheesecake.
Now The speaker has indulged the mind.
And the truth remains. What reads and what is read is the same.
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Truth is a many splendid web, woven with delight and intricacy. At best it cannot be described. It is the most unworkable paradox. That sleeps soundly, above and beneath the word.
For -
The eagle does not know that all the other birds envy it.
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Vicade of Spirit
We look for a certain image when we look for the ‘spiritual’. A softness in tone, a lightness in eyes, robes maybe, hands folded - just so. We look for quiet, an air of peace, a curated detachment. But this is performance—at least when clung to. This is surface. We are surprised to be met, with daring honesty, brutal detachment to recognition. Surprised to be met with something utterly human.
True spirituality is not an aesthetic. It is not found in the appearance of stillness, not in the white dalmatic, clothed upon the shoulders of the taught. But in the clarity of the real, beneath it. To associate spirit with a look, a gesture, a costume of virtue, is to miss the depth of what the formless actually is. Still it is trying to be something, other than the thing it is. The formless does not present itself in a single shape. The unbounded is not tied or catering to style.
One may carry the scent of spirit in silence or in song, in chaos or in calm. I was once told the masculine aspect is; still, the feminine is moving. Still in this realm, where it is that form dissipates, still we have only been revealed the masculine. How the feminine takes form; how one can crawl the earth on all fours, is a half of the same principle.
Attachment to any particular form of the spiritual is still attachment. The mind wants a sign, a symbol to lean on, a hierarchy, an end point. But clarity doesn’t cling. Clarity doesn’t decorate itself to be believed. In fact, it becomes increasingly indifferent to being understood.
So yes, in appearance, one could look like anything. Spirit can wear sneakers. A tight vest. It can wear a business suit. It can wear silence. But it always asks the same thing of us: to read beneath the surface. Not in the way it appears but in the way it ‘is’.
In many traditions, upon discovery or dedication to the path of freedom, unveiling material reality as ‘illusion’, we lock away the child, and strip it of it’s play.
The monks costume is still a costume, still a symbol, a decoration of identity. It has the marking of something deeper, more meaningful. But, still, it is a costume, to market the unmarketable.
If spirit must take a form, let it take any form. We are here to create not to conform. Let it be free. Let the child dance in coloured fabrics. Let it be.
Monkey Puzzle 2025